We're Kings Over the Parkway Tonight
by prosopopeya
Summary: It's strange how his life has come to be defined by the sounds of doors shutting in his ears. The thud of a patient he barely knew was only the beginning. Now as the strains of another door shutting in his face die in his ears, he feels his world crumble.
1. We're Kings Over the Parkway Tonight

**Title:** _We're Kings Over the Parkway Tonight_  
**Author:** Shelli  
**Pairing:** House/Wilson  
**Rating:** PG  
**Word Count**: 1,183  
**Prompt:** _137. House can't sleep for a week. What does he do?_ For http://community. **Spoilers:** Post _Son of a Coma Guy_  
**Summary:** _The noise of a casino is in his ears, and he can't stand the scent of hoagies. _(Thud.)_ His eyes burn because he can't stop his senses from replaying, and when he tries to sleep, all he can think of is a figure at a bus stop and burning anger in brown eyes._  
**Notes:** This takes place sometime after the end of "Son of a Coma Guy" but before "Whac-a-Mole." Let's say a few days. It's short, but so far there are three parts. The second part fulfills the prompt a little better, even if the answer to the question is apparently angst. There's a possibility of there being another part, depending on how I feel after the new episode. XD Right now I'm going to say it's finished though. :D Also, this takes quite a bit from "Son of a Coma Guy," so be on the lookout for references.

**We're Kings Over the Parkway Tonight**

He wakes up with the echo of a thud in his ears and pretends it's just the thud he made when he ran into his bookcase last night. He rubs the bruise on his good thigh for good measure, to remind himself that thoughts of someone's last day don't need to spin around and around in his mind like Steve in his wheel. He almost believes himself. It's easier when he's got Vicodin in his system so he takes three and counts that as breakfast.

He avoids pointed glances and concerned looks—the former from Cuddy; the latter from Cameron, but maybe the unconcerned demeanor of Foreman and Chase dig at him just as much—once he gets to the hospital. The balcony is too close and the roof is too bright so he camps out in Coma Guy's room. He says it's more convenient. He can watch "General Hospital" in peace. (_Thud_.)

"Tritter's lurking around the hospital."

"News is only news when it's new information." The sarcasm feels good even though Wilson's presence as he drags a chair over reminds him too much of a hotel room and questions. They could start talking and it might make either of them feel better but there isn't anything to say after yesterday. They listen instead to the beeping rhythm of Coma Guy's monitors.

* * *

He wonders whether it'd be better to wake up with an echo of pain if it meant he could get to sleep. His mind burns and his eyes are gritty and his jaw is sore from yawning. He cradles his face in his hands and leans over.

* * *

"The hotel needs another deposit."

House chews the rest of Wilson's salad and takes a swig from his energy drink. The circles under his eyes seem to match the ones under Wilson's, two light bruises smudged onto their cheeks. He compares them to battle wounds in his mind and doesn't see the fatigue that lies beyond Wilson's insomnia. His clothes and his voice are rumpled and there are lines along his forehead, but House is chewing Wilson's food and sitting back in his chair and telling reality to screw itself.

"You never gave me back your key."

Wilson is sighing and walking away because that's the closest he'll get to a yes and House isn't thinking about how he (missed) liked Wilson living with him. He drags the fork out of his mouth and takes a deep breath, fills his lungs with the smell of a hotel room. He takes another one and instead focuses on the scent of parmesan peppercorn dressing. (_Thud_.)

* * *

Wilson's eyes are squinting against the light from the television screen as he leans in the kitchen doorway, sweatshirt hanging off him and flannel pants dragging the floor. House let him have the bed because he isn't using it anyway, and maybe, maybe he wanted to wake Wilson up with the sounds of the TV.

"Are you going to bed?"

"Can't sleep."

A sigh and fatigue and House starts to notice the way Wilson hangs heavily in the door. "House, please."

He turns his eyes from the TV and tilts his head, leans over in the scattered darkness, filled intermittently with the flash of the screen. "Read me a bedtime story?"

The roll of the eyes is submission and then Wilson is shuffling across the room, collapsing onto the couch next to him. Conversation is quiet, light. (_Thud_.) Eventually they move on from the television to cards because they're both masochists in one aspect or another and the cards smell of Atlantic City. Maybe the colors in the room are a little too fuzzy around the edges and blending together by the time they've had a few, dealt a few hands, avoided a few glances. There's something simmering behind Wilson's eyes—glassier than normal but then again so are his and he isn't up to throwing stones—but he doesn't feel like piecing it together. He's having a hard enough time holding his (life) cards in his hand at this point.

There're two empty bottles on the table by this point and they've stopped the pretense of playing. Cards are splayed out on their laps, on the ground, and they're laughing but there isn't much heart in it. They're too tired and there's too much pressing on the both of them. So they lean into each other because somewhere that makes things a little easier. There's a fog settling into their brains and that, that's sort of nice. At least things are clouded and sounds and memories are muffled.

And Wilson is there, beside him. He listens to the sound of Wilson's voice quiet beside him and thinks that it's a constant in the experiment of his life. He thinks of the fact that he's here with him and words like "unconditional" chase themselves in his mind. (_Thud_.) He thinks about the silence in the night and the heat curling in his chest and the fog swirling in his mind.

He stops thinking when his lips press against Wilson's. It isn't soft or gentle because he isn't soft or gentle. It's about possession, about letting Wilson know that he's claiming him, stamping him to be with him. (Somewhere it's because he needs to have Wilson around, but Wilson's kissing him back before he lets those thoughts register.)

There are no whispered words and no questions, not tonight. There're just their hands on each other, resting against arms and pressing against chests, breath mingling on cheeks, body warmth passing between them. And even when clothes get pulled and lips find other places to kiss and they wind up passed out on the bed, arms tangled and sheets rumpled, the thing that haunts House's dreams is the feel of Wilson's lips. And how they pressed back.

* * *

He doesn't feel rested when he wakes up with a thud in his ears that could be a memory or a hangover. It doesn't help that Wilson's side of the bed is empty.

But then he hears a toilet flush and he lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding, feels his blood resume its circulation. Muscles uncoil and he grunts, rolls over, wonders how much he drank last night and how he's still able to remember how Wilson felt against his fingertips.

"House."

"Be quiet," he moans into the pillow. The bed indents beside him.

"House, I… I don't think I should stay here. Look, I can borrow the money from Cuddy or something—" But this time House has his head raised and he levels his eyes with Wilson. His eyes are soft and quiet and House wonders why he looks so helpless when he's the one doing this. "This just… Not now, House. With Tritter and…" But he trails off with a sigh and House only stares and wonders if a Vicodin would stop him from spiraling.

Wilson's lips press against his and he can feel the warmth in it though he tries not to. He shuts his eyes as the slamming door echoes in the house, makes his head throb.

_Thud_.


	2. And Tonight Will Go On Forever

**Spoilers:** Post _Whac-a-Mole_  
**Summary:** _He peels off his jacket and drops his helmet and this is desolation, this is abandonment. He stands for a second in his doorway and sees imprints of Wilson everywhere he looks. He presses a hand against his eyes and struggles for what's left of him._  
**Notes:** Takes place directly after _Whac-a-Mole_ and before _Finding Judas_, so Wilson doesn't really show up in it.

**And Tonight Will Go On Forever**

The night is cold. The air has been getting crisper, though the frost has yet to appear along his window or dust atop the grass. But tonight, it's colder than it has been and he rubs at the ache in his leg, thinks maybe he should put up the bike for the winter (but knows that he'd rather turn in his leg for a wheelchair). He could ask Wilson for a ride to work in the morning, if he had a car. (Then he remembers why he doesn't have a car, remembers the other "if" and his fingers wrap around his thigh.)

He wonders what the point of a cold night is if there isn't any snow. The night stretches in volumes, a three-dimensional plane hovering in black and white above the ground, hanging like a void outside his window. Nights like this, he can look out and feel winter coming, long, spiked fingers grabbing hold of the world. He says to himself that it's winter's cold grasp that's closing in around his throat, her icy grip that makes him feel as if he's drowning in the sticky tendrils of the black night sky. (And he reaches for his Vicodin.)

His mind is burning. Thoughts churn over each other in a mad scramble to get away because he doesn't do this, he doesn't think about things like this. He drags a hand over his face and through his hair— i _is it really thinning/i _—and he pulls his eyes shut tight. He reminds himself of how many Vicodin are in the bottle, rattles it for the comfort of the noise, runs his fingers over the plastic. Wonders if it's all he's got left now, and wonders if it'll be taken away from him.

He doesn't do this, he thinks. He doesn't let people get to him. He's House and he's caustic and he's got his vices but who doesn't? They work to create a shell around him, shield him from everything. Because he doesn't deal with things like this. It's always worked for him before. (He cuts off thoughts of "Stacy" before they have time to form.) This is who and how he is and he hasn't had a problem with that before. He's right, after all.

Steve lets him know that it's passed into some ungodly hour of the morning when he picks up the pace in his wheel. Like clockwork, but his mind touches the word "constant" and he starts to wonder if he's the dependent variable. He sits back and rubs at his eyes with one hand. The other arm is tucked away in a smooth black sling and his shoulder throbs until he wonders if the blood will burst out of his arm. It's been days since he slept, not since Atlantic City and (un)conditional love and a thud in the next room. He can think of better reasons to avoid sleep, can feel a brush of lips, but this is all starting to get too much for him.

There are a thousand metaphors for this moment. Water closing in over his head, choking his cries, drowning him. Yarn unraveling from his grasp, fingers clambering to keep it all together. Falling. Drowning. Crumbling. To pieces.

His eyes are burning and it's been a week now. He's starting to fringe at his edges and if he could just fucking i _sleep /I _then maybe he could sit down and think about something, could fucking i _fix /i _his life. He wraps his hand around the bottle of pills and suddenly thinks of security blankets and nearly laughs out loud. This is all a little too ridiculous for him and he just wants to scream.

He'd go for a walk if he didn't ache, if every fiber of him wasn't throbbing with emptiness, with everything that's sliding along his thoughts. The night is cool but his blood is burning and he can't fucking i _stand this /i _anymore, but it's been a long time since he's ever admitted defeat and even then, it was only temporary.

He sits in the night and thinks that he doesn't know if this is temporary. The thought of absolute defeat, that's new and it's a pill he can't swallow. But he really doesn't know and that's what's awful, that's what burns and tugs and makes him stare at the phone, mutely white in its holder in the kitchen. He doesn't know who he'd call. Names flicker in his mind, and he thinks of Wilson and Tritter. His fingers twitch and his nerve trembles but in the end he only watches the phone.

The clatter of the books onto the floor is loud and sharp and satisfying as it fills the room. He squeezes his eyes shut and leans against the table, pushes down onto it as if he can empty himself into the wood, as if he can make all of this go away if he could just hit something hard enough. There's a moment where he almost puts his hand under the table, but he isn't in a hospital this time and then he really wouldn't be able to hold onto anything anymore.

He finds himself staring at the scar in the mirror. He drags his fingers over the mark on his neck, another scar of another accident and he thinks of how these things trigger social crises. First it was Stacy and then it was ketamine, Wilson. Himself. His fingers grip at the sink and he stares down the drain. There wasn't anything new, anything different. He's pushed Wilson to the breaking point, but he always stayed.

( i _Maybe I don't want to push this 'till it breaks /i _.)

But for all his words, in the end he's a cripple who deals in action and he's run out of them. He could turn himself in but then what would he be? He'd be a failure, he'd be a screw up, he'd fade into nothingness because that's what happens to a boy who doesn't do anything right. No one cares about him and that includes his father because who can pay attention to a measly kid who doesn't know anything? But what is he if he doesn't? Unconditional love echoes in his mind and he stares at the mirror.

Is being right enough if it leaves him empty, sleepless, burning as the world freezes?

He's stretched out on the sofa, leg propped up and arm carefully laid across his chest. Steve McQueen sits in his cage on the table. There's music but he isn't really listening to it, eyes too busy staring at the ceiling. His right hand picks at the floor, trails patterns across the smooth surface. It runs across the bottle of Vicodin amongst the scattered books and papers that had taken up residence on the table before he knocked it over.

His head turns until his eyes find the phone, silent and still and miles away because his body aches and the world is spinning out of control and he needs to hang onto what's constant, what he can control (what can he control?).

So his fingers curl around the bottle until his knuckles turn white. He'll stay like this for another week, if that's what it's going to be. He can't sleep but at least this is better than digging his fingers into his scalp. He'll stare down the phone, his adversary, and blame it on the plastic, on the coming winter, on the fact that his eyes burn and his mind churns and the world spinning out of control. And he tells himself that at least he was right. He has that. He was right.


	3. Both Sides Now

**Title:** _Both Sides Now_  
**Author:** Shelli ( a href"http://labellacaracol. **Characters:** Wilson, House/Wilson  
**Rating:** PG  
**Word Count:** 1,368  
**Prompt:** _137. House can't sleep for a week. What does he do?_ For a href"http://community. **Spoilers:** Set during _Finding Judas_  
**Summary:** _The scent of peanut butter should be comforting, should remind him of childhood where there weren't any drug addicted doctors to be bothered about. It should comfort him, but it doesn't. There is a man with a problem, bigger than addiction and bigger than a scar laced across his thigh, and he is tied up with him. Irrevocably._  
**Notes:** Third part in the We're Kings Over the Parkway Tonight series. So far, the last one. This one is centered on Wilson.

**Both Sides Now**

He drags a hand over his face and sighs, presses his back against the door as it shuts behind him and leans against it, looking for stability. His heart is racing with the motion of holding himself together as he stares at his hands. He smells of the hospital now, which is better than the smell of the hotel room that brings back echoes of lonely nights and hollow words and a glance, a stare on a bench by the road.

His hands work his way through his hair as he sighs, heads for the back and the bread because he isn't looking for anything fancy; he just wants something that's like sustenance since he isn't getting anything anymore. He hates it but there's a half of him that's empty, a part of him still back in House's apartment where the ghost presence of his lips forever dance upon Wilson's mouth. He tastes House now, as he spreads peanut butter onto white bread. An energy drink, chips, coffee—it's all so laughably House that he finds himself chuckling as he opens the jelly.

It's the hollowed out look of his eyes when he walks through the door that lets him know he isn't the only one suffering. And he hates to be reminded of it because when is that man ever going to let him feel something for once? He's silent and deadly as he sits on the couch, and Wilson doesn't look up—well, only for a second—because he doesn't want to see his face again. Before, maybe, they could've had something but now all they have is a fight and the haunting remains of a night together and now he wonders what there is to be salvaged. (And he aches because he knows there is i _everything/i _.)

House isn't saying anything and neither is he because he can't think of anything, can't find a way to rebuild the bridge. So he takes a bite of his sandwich and stares at the door, counting his heartbeats and wondering if his headache would ever go away. He hears the rattle of a pill bottle and he looks back at House, finds House's eyes locking with his even while he was looking away. He nearly chokes on his sandwich because what he sees, it isn't House.

At least, it isn't the House that he's used to seeing. It isn't the House that barges into a room with a sarcastic joke and a witty remark and a brilliant mind to solve anything set before it. It isn't the House that is pompous or conceited or self-satisfied. He wonders if House will ever be any of those things, really. The man on the sofa in front of him is the House that only he ever saw, brittle around the edges and insecure and scared. Scared to lose control, scared that everything will change. Scared that he'll be left behind, cast aside, lost by the wayside.

It's House's insecurity that baffles him the most. It's the reason why he's such a jerk. He doesn't think he has what it takes to make people need him or want him around just because of who he is, so he has to find a way to make them need him for practical reasons, and then he tests that need to see how far it reaches because he needs to know if it's really there, if it'll last. He doesn't believe it will and he wants to know when it'll break so he can be ready for it. The funny thing is that he'll never be ready for any relationship to break.

Looking at him now, he can see the scars of Stacy, of himself, etched into his empty eyes, sick and pale. And he hates it because he was doing a pretty good job of feeling sorry for himself. Now he drops what's left of his sandwich and shifts on his feet, feeling the tightness of his tie around his neck, missing his office and a home and someone to talk to, and he turns his head, pulls a hand over his neck. Suddenly he feels very tired, but all he can think is warm arms pulled around him and the crashing of bodies and sheets that smell like House and his stomach clenches.

House is up then. He can hear the staggered footsteps and feel the presence near him on the counter. He turns to find House eating his sandwich and he smiles, just a little, because it's familiar and by God he needs something that's familiar.

"How many?" he asks softly and watches House hesitate while he chews before he drops his eyes to the counter, a tic that Wilson sees and wonders just how brittle House is now, on the inside. He wonders how much it hurts for House to be exposed like he is, wonders if House even knows what he's feeling. A raw nerve, the man in front of him, and Wilson wonders how long it will take before it snaps.

"Whatever the fuck _reasonable_ means." He chews for a few more seconds before he snaps his head back up. "I'm in an i _unreasonable /i _amount of pain and I get a i _reasonable /i _dose of medicine."

Wilson shakes his head because he can see the river of hurt beneath the surface and House's anger is buzzing around him like bees around a hive. The noise of it fills his hearts and reverberates through his heart and he lowers his head. It's misdirected anger, arising from being hurt and trapped and he compares House to an animal in his mind, leg caught in a trap, pain coursing through his system, and all he knows is that at least that way, at least as he is, he's i _alive /i _, and he doesn't trust anyone to come near him now. Things are shifting and he doesn't know what the pattern is and he just wants a constant.

"I'd better get back to work," he mutters softly, turning to leave the kitchen, leave the wounded animal to cry in the night. He knows better than to approach an animal like this. And he's afraid if he stays any longer, he might not be able to piece his image of House back together.

It's the bruise on Chase's chin, the determination in his eyes, the current of righteous anger flowing beneath his veins that flashes through Wilson's mind as he walks slowly down a hallway. His hands are shoved in his pockets and his brow is furrowed and he has a headache. He wonders when he started carrying around this weight that hangs around his neck and presses against his chest so tightly that he can't breathe. He stops in front of the door, stares at it, paces, puts a hand to his head to feel the coolness of it.

He thinks of House, of warm hands and warm companionship and wonders when it was that he fell in love with him, and why the hell he had to pick i _House /i _. He utters a wry laugh and leans against the wall, back pressed firmly against something solid because he needs a tether and he doesn't have House anymore. He knows better than to approach an animal like House, when it's curled up on the ground and moaning and bleeding, knows that first he has to take away the trap before he can begin to tend to its wounds. He wonders when he crossed the line from desperation to determination but decides that it's only a cover when he takes a breath and feels the sharp pang ignite in his chest.

He thinks of kisses and wonders what House's response will be if that'll ever happen for them again. The kiss of a betrayer.

He digs his fingers against the wall and stares at the doorknob. On the fiftieth i _go, now /i _, he pushes himself away and it feels like he's swimming, pushing against the air with weight on his legs. This is for House, he reminds himself, for the House with the hollow eyes and pale skin. This is to help him.

He knows he believes it but wishes the ache wouldn't settle so heavily in his bones.


	4. Slow Dancing in a Burning Room

**Title:** _Slow Dancing in a Burning Room_  
**Author:** Shelli (a href"http://labellacaracol. **Characters:** House, House/Wilson  
**Rating:** PG  
**Word Count:** 1,527  
**Spoilers:** Post Merry Little Christmas  
**Summary:** _There's a burning feeling somewhere in his stomach that's seperate from the sleeping demon in his thigh, and he grits his teeth because he knows that's what the Vicodin and the trip to Everything's Swirly Land was all about. All he got was a lousy stain on his carpet and an empty feeling in his stomach that started when he heard his door shut. Now he stares at Wilson's door--well, the hotel's really--and tries not to laugh because the sound of doors shutting never mattered this much to him before._  
**Notes:** Fourth part in the We're Kings Over the Parkway Tonight series, even though the parts work as standalones. They're in-between episode speculation, trying to keep in with what's happening in the show. Fun to write, really...

**Slow Dancing in a Burning Room**

He leans heavily on his cane and wonders what he looks like, a cripple with snow melting on his shoulders as he stands uncertainly in the hallway of a hotel. It's sometime into the early morning hours, and he spent his Christmas on his couch with Jack Daniel, the leftover scent of vomit, and the hollow sounds of "Merry Christmas" in his ears. His fingers curl into a loose ball at his side, and he feels a little sheepish to be there, staring down a doorknob like it's his greatest enemy. Which is stupid, he thinks, because it turns out that he's his own greatest enemy. He tightens his grip on his cane and smoothes out the skin along his forehead with his fingers.

How he found himself here, somewhere past midnight in the fuzzy grey quality of the day after Christmas, in front of the door to the hotel room of a man who has recently betrayed him more often than he cares to recall, is as mysterious to him as how he found himself walking into a police station to confront the dickweed that's currently ruining his life. He chews his lip—which still tastes of pills, liquor, and his own vomit, despite an extra twenty minutes in the shower—and thinks that Wilson had a pretty big hand in ruining his life lately, too. Why the hell i _is /I _he here? But he can remember warm eyes and gentle smiles and reassurance (moans, hands, lips) and in the end, he knows he couldn't stay away.

It turns out that it's Wilson who acts first. House's eyes widen in surprise as the door opens and Wilson nearly walks into him, ice bucket in his hand. The little yelp he lets out as he stumbles backward into the door is akin to that of an animal being strangled, and House tries to remember why he's there instead of imagining Wilson as a small squirrel. He's certainly got the hair part down, and his lips press together in a smile when he wonders if his tail could possibly be as bushy as his eyebrows.

"You're smiling. Did you steal more pills? Or maybe you ran over an elf on your way here."

"Don't be silly. Christmas is over. All the elves are back at the North Pole." The question of whether or not he stole more pills still hangs in the air but he doesn't feel like reaching out for that one just yet. His leg is throbbing, pain radiating in waves along his bones, up through his hips, to settle into a solid ache at the base of his stomach, not to mention what's going on in the lower half of his leg, how it sometimes reaches out and curls a fist around his knee, or when his toes tingle as if they've gone to sleep and he wants to pound his fist against something until it stops.

He realizes Wilson is standing here, staring at him, and House flashes back to the last time he saw Wilson—hazy though it was, and at the time he wasn't even sure he was still alive, was only partially sure he still wanted to be. He'd offer some sort of explanation except he doesn't do those types of things, so instead he drags a hand over an eyebrow and stares at the carpeting, the orange pattern inlaid in the faintly off-red fabric slightly alarming to the senses.

"Did you take the deal?"

Something in him clenches at that question, bristles and bares its teeth and growls. His knuckles turn white as he grips his cane and finds Wilson's face again, narrows his eyes as his jaw sets a little tighter. "I'm going to rehab." It isn't the whole truth, but Wilson hasn't been really fond of the whole truth—at least, not to i _his /I _face—lately, and it's as far as he wants to get into it now anyway.

Wilson deflates a little, lets out a breath, and he can watch as the relief eases into his shoulders, into the set of his arms as they hang at his sides. He tastes deception in his own mouth and it's uncomfortable but "everybody lies" plays a few times in his head until he feels a little dizzy. His leg twitches, spasms, and the pain shoots into his spine like a missile. His cry echoes into the hallway, turns the head of a couple walking to their room, makes Wilson knit his eyebrows together and lean toward him, hand brushing House's on the cane.

"Are you alright?" Wilson winces and shrugs the question off, backing off House and turning back into his hotel room. "Come on, come sit down."

House hobbles in after Wilson, feeling a jumble of things he hates to feel—pain, embarrassed, ashamed, small—and the grit of his teeth is less for the pain stabbing into him and more for the Vicodin that's only one piece of paper away. He feels the curl of anger in his gut and he collapses onto Wilson's bed, torso hovering over his thigh as he braces himself to the pain.

He can feel Wilson's eyes on him as he stands near him, arms over his chest. "There are other ways. Pain management programs. It doesn't have to stay like this."

As House curls his fingers around his thigh, as the blood pounds at his temples, as his skin rips in two, he shuts his eyes and tries to remember why he came here. He can smell Wilson, like soap and a gentle aftershave, in the air, overpowering the fresh hotel scent. He's been too long in this room, without an apartment, but House's mind doesn't think of his empty couch. House's mind is only white pain.

The bed indents beside him and there's a shoulder brushing against his, a hand on his shoulder. "You'll get through this." He pulls his eyes shut tight and tries to feel the warmth of his hand over the surge of pain.

It takes a few minutes, but it abates—not entirely but enough that he can uncurl his body and sit fairly upright. His left hand unclenches and he flexes his fingers to bring feeling back into them. Wilson's hand still rests on his shoulder, his eyes still fixed on his face. House takes a breath because the pain has let go of his lungs and he tries to fill himself with the feelings he had when he first came over. He looks up at Wilson, the picture of concern.

"You'll get through this," he says again, as if repeating it will make any of this any easier, will jump into his bloodstream and become his Vicodin. The unspoken "with me" hangs in the air and around Wilson's head, his eyes soft and gentle like the hand on his shoulder, like the scent hanging in the room. House levels his eyes as he feels the weariness settle into his bones.

When the tide of anger rises in him, he doesn't fight it. When he feels his world hurtle toward a crescendo, he rides the wave of righteous fury because it's easier than trying to look into Wilson's eyes as his leg rips apart and remember how he breathed against his neck.

He stands. Wilson's hand falls into his lap. He leans heavily on his cane as he stares down into those eyes, caring and understanding, and he remembers being left on his floor, remembers a "Merry Christmas," feels a prick in his thigh.

"You want to help me like you wanted to help all your wives, like you wanted to help your dying patient." House watches as Wilson deflates and anger mounts behind his eyes. "Stop trying to help me."

It's the "get out of my life" that he falters on, but Wilson doesn't see it. No, all he can see is House's back and the door shutting in front of him.

House watches Steve run in circles in his cage. That sheepish feeling from earlier is gone, vanished, vanquished with the warm touch of someone who thought he was doing what was right. As the pain slides into his hip, he leans back against the couch, pulls his eyes shut, and mutters a "fuck you" into the air. He tries to remember why he went there in the first place, finds the cowed feeling that washed over him in the face of his own near death—the first entirely due to his own large mistake. The stain of it stares at him accusingly from the floor, even as he has his eyes screwed shut. He takes a medical journal from the table and throws, covering it up.

He seeks out the anger and it comes over him again, strong and powerful. His lips curl and he leans his head back against the couch. He was the one who was wronged here. Betrayed. And all because of someone who needs to take care of someone else. Wilson must be short of attractive cancer patients.

He grins but on the edge of his consciousness he can feel the stain staring at him from beneath the magazine.


	5. Just Keep Me Where the Light Is

**Title:** Just Keep Me Where the Light Is  
**Author:** Shelli  
**Pairing:** House/Wilson  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count:** 1,850  
Spoilers: Post _Words and Deeds_  
**Summary:** He leans against the windowsill and watches the smoke curl against the glass. The world outside is dulled from winter, grey settling onto the trees like a weight. He takes a breath, slides a hand over his leg where the pain lies in wait, and feels the world start to slide back into place.  
**Notes:** It's the last part to the We're Kings Over the Parkway Tonight series, and it's...dare I say? Not as angsty as the rest of the series. Because as a few people have pointed out, I need to write something happy. So here you go.

**Just Keep Me Where the Light Is**

He marks the days in rehab with clay organs and a pile of fortunetellers. The mantras cycle around in his head like a bad song he can't forget, and he takes up smoking to give himself something to do with his hands. He watches the smoke curl up toward the windows and leans against the wall, perched on the windowsill. He feels the beginning of going stir crazy, his mind spinning in circles. The nicotine somewhere isn't helping, but his leg sends up twinges of reality to crack into his spine and remind him of why he's there. Voldemort slips him Vicodin but it isn't nearly enough, not enough to shut out the pain or the confusion of the past few weeks.

But at least it's different, a little easier, as he leans back against the wall. He rolls the cigarette between his fingers, smooth, tense paper, surface cool and rough to the touch. There's no threat of impending doom hovering over his head. It's been a long time since he's felt that way. He puts his forehead against the glass and breathes onto it, watching the fog fade away. He smiles against the night.

* * *

He hasn't been called "Greg" this often in a long time, and it's starting to wear on him, the personal quality of his first name. He's got his face near the window, his favorite place to sit now that the days blur together into one hellish stay within grey-white walls, so he doesn't see Wilson as he comes in, walking slow with his hands in his pockets and his chin tucked down.

"Hey, House."

The sound of his last name startles him and he nearly drops his cigarette. The lack of proper Vicodin dosing and the monotony had started him staring off into nothing for a while, losing himself to his thoughts. He turns his head, exhaling the smoke slowly and he wonders what Wilson has to say about it. A smirk picks up at the corners of his mouth and he can feel House come in and take over for Greg.

"Here to spring me loose?"

Wilson sits in his chair, his eyes rolling as he looks up at House, and the exasperated look is what he was looking for. "You get out tomorrow, House."

"But I've forgotten what it's like on the outside!" He slips on a mock expression of desperation, channels cheesy prison movies, his face dragging out and pulling his eyes wide. He earns a smile and shake of the head from Wilson, and it's as he takes a drag on the cigarette that he watches the smile travel to Wilson's eyes and he realizes he's missed that.

* * *

He lets the door swing shut behind him, his helmet cradled in his hand and his cane held firmly in the other. He takes a deep breath for the smell of something other than a hospital, and he lets his eyes slide shut for a second. It's never felt so damned good to be in his own home. It's once he's peeled his jacket off and has lumbered into the kitchen to check on Steve that he notices the sharp scent of fresh pine bedding, the slight aftertaste of disinfectant, and he runs a finger over his counters, which he distinctly remembers leaving with a light layer of film and a couple of crumbs, but now are clean under his fingertips.

He grabs the chips and a beer and heads back into the living room, his cigarettes still in his pocket but his fingers are twitching and he isn't sure about drifting back into the habit. Weeks of sleeping on a stiff bed and stiffer sheets with the stench of sterile fabric and tobacco and clay left him uneasy and restless, tossing in his sleep until he woke up in a cold sweat with a pain snarling in his thigh. Now his eyes burn and scratch like sandpaper, and he tilts the bottle to his lips, watches as the amber glass turns his wall into warped shades of brown and smoothed-over gold.

The knock is familiar when it comes and he has to wonder if it isn't entirely unexpected. He rises, makes his way to the door and pulls it open. Wilson is bared before him, wearing a baggy sweatshirt as the snow melts on the shoulders of his jacket. It had started up that afternoon, steady and persistent, the flakes small but packed close together so that the world was a wall of white. It only made his first steps outside that much brighter; he had wished for sunglasses.

"How's it feel to be back?" Wilson asks as he steps in, not waiting for an invitation. House wouldn't have given one anyway, steps back from the door as he eyes the grocery bags in Wilson's hands.

"You've been cleaning my apartment."

Wilson looks over his shoulder as he makes his way to the kitchen. "You say that like it's some sort of crime."

"No crime, just odd."

"Some people do clean their apartments from time to time, House." The bags are in his kitchen and Wilson is unpacking them, putting some away in cupboard while leaving others out on the counter. He spies a package of chicken and feels his stomach cave in expectantly.

"But not other peoples'." The dig is familiar, comfortable; he's missed bantering in his own living room and he settles back onto his couch, popping another chip into his mouth though now he's eating more for taste and less to settle his stomach.

"It wouldn't kill you to thank me."

"Says you." His voice is dramatic and low as he scoops up the remote, flips around for an action movie. He comes up on "The L Word" and smirks, putting his feet up on the table and settling back. "What have I missed?"

Wilson glances up from the bags and House can hear the sound of pots and pans. He only half listens to Wilson as he goes into detail; for one there are two women kissing on screen and it has to be breaking some sort of guy rule to not pay attention to that. The other reason is quieter as it edges around the fringes of his mind, creeps into the muscles that begin to relax. His home smells familiar; he can feel his skin drawing in the air around him, can feel himself returning to his habitat. Wilson's voice is in his ears, the sink running, bags rustling, knife chopping. He leans back against the couch and shuts his eyes—girls are gone—and lets everything sink in.

* * *

It's a little ridiculous, he thinks later when the dishes are in the sink and Wilson's got his feet up on the table beside him and he, the night owl, is tired. His mind is on fire at its edges, eyes dry with lack of sleep, and he thinks back to Atlantic City, to the thuds that have come to define his life. His mind was buzzing with lack of sleep and too much alcohol when he was on his couch with Wilson, when the world paused before it began to crash and burn; now he's got too little Vicodin and he's had too much opportunity to sleep, not that it would come. But Wilson's on his couch again.

He doesn't get the chance to glance sideways. Wilson's hand brushes his wrist, his leg presses gently against his good thigh. House takes a breath, keeps his gaze steady. He's trembling, somewhere, and it's a feeling that makes him want to pull back but he takes another breath and another, wets his lips. Wilson leans up and sets his bottle on the table, his hand sliding along House's leg as he leans forward and back.

Time freezes. It hangs heavy around them and moments tick away as they hover somewhere in space, eyes glancing off each other as Wilson's hand crosses a boundary that was set, and House's heart beats a little faster.

"Nothing's changed?"

Wilson's voice is thick and House wonders what his mind has been reeling with.

"Nothing's changed."

Wilson's head does a little nod, his fingers flexing around his leg. His head turns then, eyes flicking over House's face, skipping from his eyes to his lips and back and House's breath catches in his throat. He leans closer, eyes gauging, measuring, teasing and House feels a rock press against his chest until Wilson's lips close over his.

Everything—Tritter, the trial, his pills, his betrayal, Cuddy's lies, Gabriel—collides and scatters to a back portion of his mind. His hand curls into a fist and the other finds Wilson's shoulder, fingers the nape of his neck. Their lips are gentle, testing, soft. He can feel breath against his cheek and he can taste Wilson, can feel Wilson burning against him.

It's Wilson who breaks it, keeping their mouths near and his nose brushing House's. His hand is tracing over House's collarbone and House has got a fistful of Wilson's shirt. Later he'll smirk, be glad he had a chance to wrinkle the ever-pristine Dr. Wilson. Their eyes flick over each other's face, breath mixing and hearts pounding. They're still waiting for the first move to happen and both are teetering on the edge of making it. Wilson swallows, hesitates, opens his mouth.

A memory comes sliding into House's mind and it's the irony of who said it first that makes him repeat it now. "Not all change is bad."

A hint of a smile brushes Wilson's face, paints his flushed face. House takes in those eyes, dark and relieved and wet; his hair is mussed and it amuses House how quickly he became disheveled. He reaches a hand up to ruffle his hair and Wilson gives him a withering look, eyes rolling as his smile widens.

"And you've been waiting how many years to mess up my hair?"

But it's the tone of House's voice that knocks the smile out of Wilson's voice.

"Too many."

* * *

When he wakes up, sheets tangled around his legs and chest cold and bare in the chilled air of the winter morning, he takes a deep breath, rubs his face against his pillow. His bed is warm and clean and smells of detergent and it has a lived-in quality that he lets his eyes linger shut. His mind is quiet, cool; he feels rested for the first time in weeks, and he doesn't feel like trying to pinpoint the moment his life stopped fitting into the little box he made for it. He's been doing that for too long and finally, finally the thud is gone from his ears.

He rolls onto his back when he hears Wilson stir, feels a hand come warm onto his chest. It makes him shiver, and then Wilson turns his head and smiles, sleepy with red-rimmed eyes and his hair sticking up in various places.

"Morning, House."

And it startles him at first because he had gotten to used to the "Greg," so that when his last name falls from Wilson's lips, he grins.


End file.
